


masquerade

by treescape



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Mistaken identities, Qui-Gon Jinn Lives, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:33:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24982384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treescape/pseuds/treescape
Summary: For years Obi-Wan had wondered what it might take for Qui-Gon to hold him––not out of duty or friendship, but out of want. The answer, it turned out, was simple enough in its own right.He just had to be someone else.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 28
Kudos: 177





	masquerade

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very late fill for [Chibiobiwan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chibiobiwan/pseuds/Chibiobiwan)'s amazing prompt in the MaytheFourth Prompt Fest on the Qui-Gon/Obi-Wan discord server: "Obi-Wan’s friends all think that since he and his Master are always away on field missions he wouldn’t know how to be covert if his life depended on it. Determined to prove them wrong, Obi-Wan makes a bet that at the annual Masquerade they won't be able to tell who he is. The only problem is Qui-Gon can’t tell either and romance ensues. [any rating]." I didn't quite follow it to the letter, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!
> 
> A million thanks to [sanerontheinside](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanerontheinside/pseuds/sanerontheinside) for giving me feedback on this which kept me from deleting it in frustration!
> 
> If you want a visual for Obi-Wan's mask, you can look [HERE](https://tree-scapes.tumblr.com/post/622276909751058432/okay-but-hear-me-out-imagine-obi-wan-wearing) on my tumblr!

Once, Obi-Wan had infiltrated a spice den on Nar Kreeta with about thirty seconds’ notice. He’d had almost nothing to hand but his lightsaber and a pair of rather singed Jedi robes, yet he’d managed to deceive the proprietors, rescue their hostage, and keep Qui-Gon from suffering more than a few scratches.

He hadn’t even really needed the lightsaber.

But try telling his friends that.

“If you’re as good as you say you are,” Bant said skeptically over dinner, “prove it at the Ball tomorrow.” Everyone at the table could hear the capitalization in her voice; the Chancellor’s masquerade was a mainstay of Coruscanti politics. She threw down her gauntlet almost casually. “I _dare_ you.”

Obi-Wan promptly wagered his favourite teapot, which Bant had been admiring for months: she wouldn’t even know he’d been there.

It was a matter of pride, just a little. Mostly it was meant to be _fun_. He’d never expected to break his own heart in the process.

For years Obi-Wan had wondered what it might take for Qui-Gon to hold him––not out of duty or friendship, but out of want. The answer, it turned out, was simple enough in its own right.

He just had to be someone else.

\---

In the two years since his Knighting, the rare days Obi-Wan spent on Coruscant had fallen into a distinct pattern. He didn’t mind rearranging his sparring and meditation to prepare for the masquerade, but there were other appointments he was more loath to neglect.

“If you’re sure,” Anakin said over their customary lunch the next day, with a look of relief he couldn’t quite hide. He dug into his pancakes with all the fervor of an eleven-year-old boy.

Had Obi-Wan been younger, the hint of skepticism beneath Anakin’s relief might have rankled just a little. Now, he fought down a smile.

“I am,” he assured. “But I appreciate the offer.” Anakin had meant it, too; it had been written there in the stubborn set of his face. Had Obi-Wan said the word, Anakin would have spent the rest of the day helping him plan.

They had danced around each other at first, Qui-Gon’s old padawan and his new, neither quite sure what to make of the other. Qui-Gon, the Temple, and the Battle of Naboo had seemed the only things they had in common until they agreed to try being friends, but Obi-Wan found he had come to enjoy Anakin’s exuberant presence.

If the braid in Anakin’s hair occasionally sparked a swell of nostalgia strong enough to suffocate, Obi-Wan did his best to shrug it off. It wasn’t like he wanted to be Qui-Gon’s padawan again anyway, not exactly.

He only wanted Qui-Gon, and that was something different.

But some things couldn’t be helped, and Obi-Wan had subsisted on dreams and wishes long enough that it was second-nature. He set his thoughts firmly aside and focused exclusively on Anakin.

“Now. I hear rumours that Master Nu caught you tinkering with the library droids.”

Anakin shot him a wary look, but it dissolved when Obi-Wan leaned back in his chair with a grin.

“Just how much extra memory _did_ you manage to give them, Anakin?”

\---

Obi-Wan rather enjoyed planning for missions, when he had the luxury of time. He liked the puzzle of it, the precision of following each line of possibility to its branching conclusions. It produced a different kind of thrill to that which came from thinking on one’s feet, but one that was no less rewarding. It had helped get Qui-Gon out of more than a few dilemmas over the years.

So although it wasn’t quite like any real mission he’d ever been on, as soon as lunch was over, Obi-Wan threw himself into planning for the masquerade with conviction. 

The invitation was easy, even on short notice. Jedi might not often attend the Chancellor’s Masquerade, but they were always welcome. With one polite message, Obi-Wan’s name was added to the attendance list.

The mask was somewhat more difficult, but it was also more fun. Obi-Wan didn’t often have an excuse to visit the shopping districts on Coruscant. It was a very different kind of adventure to what he was used to, but that made it enjoyable in and of itself.

“This one,” he said decisively as he surveyed himself carefully in the shop’s mirror. Bronze filigree sloped elegantly across his own face, skimming the contours of his cheeks and nose and leaving only a portion of his face visible on the left. The mask possessed minimal stealth technology, just enough to smooth his visible features into an unsettling semblance of anonymity.

It meant that anyone who was truly looking for him would be able to pierce it without too much difficulty, but that was part of the challenge––and part of the fun.

Besides, sometimes the best disguises were also the simplest. A deception that folded as much truth as possible into the lies was easiest to maintain; that was something Obi-Wan had learned piece by piece over the years, working to disguise his love for his Master as something more admissible. He had plaited it in amongst threads of friendship and respect, there where it could be misinterpreted with ease.

Obi-Wan had no illusions about his capabilities in general. He didn’t claim to be an expert at much. Disguise, however…

Disguise, he excelled at in a way he sometimes wished he didn’t.

But those were melancholy thoughts, and as Obi-Wan accepted the wrapped mask from the Mikkian shopkeeper, he reminded himself that there were much more cheerful things to think of for the moment. 

Such as defending his honour (and his beloved Corellian teapot) at the Masquerade that night.

Obi-Wan could well imagine Qui-Gon’s response to this current endeavour: he would fondly shake his head and proceed to aid in the planning by posing increasingly outlandish scenarios for Obi-Wan to theorize his way out of.

 _“And if someone upturns the punchbowl over your head?”_ , Qui-Gon might ask with a twitch of his lips, and Obi-Wan would reply with an ease borne of habit and mirth. _“Why Master, I would declare it an honour that they must partake of as well.”_

With the mask tucked under his arm, Obi-Wan left the shop smiling.

\---

Qui-Gon didn’t much like political functions, for all that he excelled at them. He thought they were too affected, too fussy, too claustrophobic, and he avoided them with well-practiced ease when given the choice. Obi-Wan knew from long experience that Qui-Gon preferred more intimate settings––comfortable dinners with good company and good food, or smaller crowds where one could laugh freely.

So Obi-Wan was more than a little bewildered when his former Master walked through the doors of the main ballroom at the Presidential Palace, some few hours after the Ball began.

Qui-Gon had the type of presence that seemed to belong almost anywhere; his demeanor was one that bore dignity and ease with equal precision. Still, the graceful sweep of his plain Jedi robes stood out against an extravagance of colour, and his face, so familiar that Obi-Wan could trace each line from fifty feet away, bore no mask at all.

He hadn’t intended to be here, then, or else he didn’t mean to stay long. Obi-Wan couldn’t fathom why he had come.

But Qui-Gon was a magnet, and Obi-Wan but fragments of iron. He had stopped fighting it long ago.

He’d never really wanted to, anyway.

\---

Obi-Wan wasn’t the first person in the ballroom to gravitate towards Qui-Gon’s side, but then he hadn’t expected to be. A Jedi at a gathering such as this was too much of a curiosity––and an opportunity––for some politicians to resist.

Especially a Jedi so esteemed as Qui-Gon.

By the time Obi-Wan managed to cross the room, drifting through the crowd as naturally as possible, Qui-Gon had already attracted a small cluster of figures near the entrance. His face was polite and unruffled, but Obi-Wan could tell from the faraway look in his eyes that he was searching for someone.

The way Obi-Wan’s mask grazed his own face made him feel hyperaware of his surroundings as he moved. The lights glared too brightly off the chandeliers. Perfumes hung thick in the air, more than strong enough to taste. Dancers ebbed and flowed like a sea, its patterns choreographed by the inscrutable demands of politics. It was somehow disarming and disaffecting all at once, but then Obi-Wan rather thought that was the point of such events: to unsettle its guests into revealing more than they might otherwise choose, all under the guise of anonymity.

Qui-Gon, wrapped in his customary habit of serenity and grace, was like a world apart. Obi-Wan instinctively wanted to reach out to him through the Force, to submerge himself in that steady presence. It was difficult not to, with Qui-Gon right there; he was like water and air, and Obi-Wan ached for him always. It had been like losing a sense, to be Knighted and remember that his Master would not always endure on the periphery of Obi-Wan’s own self.

But Obi-Wan knew how to live with desire, so he held tight to the shields he’d erected before leaving the Temple. Bant could be anywhere, after all, and he wasn’t about to forfeit on their bet.

Obi-Wan didn’t recognize two of the figures crowded around Qui-Gon, their faces patterned elaborately with gemstones and their bodies draped in a billowing rainbow of silks. The third, he could only _wish_ he didn't. Aeon Marisel was imperious and resentful, in Obi-Wan’s estimation. He and Qui-Gon had spent three weeks in the Zurian Senator’s company some years back, and it was an experience Obi-Wan never wanted to repeat.

But sometimes desperate times really did call for desperate measures, and Obi-Wan wanted very dearly to know what Qui-Gon was up to.

Obi-Wan came to a stop and clapped a hand on one of Aeon’s narrow shoulders as if he expected to be recognized and welcomed as a matter of course. Cloth-of-gold wrinkled under his fingers, abrasive and unpleasant, as he tightened his grip in greeting. Aeon frowned down at him for a split second, lips thinning beneath the curve of his simple domino, before his face smoothed into a smile that looked almost natural.

“Ah,” Aeon said. His dark hair fell over his forehead as he leaned in conspiratorially, like they were old friends, and Obi-Wan knew the Senator would be chewing over his identity for days. “Yes, there you are. Have you had the pleasure of meeting Master Jinn? He once helped extract Zuria from a small bit of trouble.”

Qui-Gon had helped extract Zuria from a major intergalactic embarrassment, in fact, but the way Aeon spoke made it sound as if Qui-Gon was somehow beholden to him.

Obi-Wan fought not to laugh and instead inclined his head in mock surprise, as if he had heard the story from Aeon a thousand times before. “Did he?” he asked in his very best Corellian accent, flicking his gaze over to meet Qui-Gon’s in amusement, and he very suddenly felt the slow creep of uncertainty for the first time that evening.

There were some things Obi-Wan just knew, deep within the reaches of his own soul. The universe was dangerous and often dark, but there was good in it. He had been meant to be a Jedi, to be one with the Force and to follow its will. Qui-Gon would be a part of him always, and Obi-Wan would know him anywhere. Such things had been in his heart for so long he would feel dismantled without them.

It hadn’t really occurred to Obi-Wan that Qui-Gon would not always know him in return, but perhaps it should have, because Qui-Gon took him in at a slow glance, from his masked face to the deceptively simple elegance of his black robes, and _oh_.

There was no spark of recognition in the way Qui-Gon held his body. He did not angle himself towards Obi-Wan the way he always seemed to do, even since Obi-Wan’s Knighting, their bodies trained for so long to move in synchronicity. He held himself as he would in a politician’s presence, relaxed but apart.

“Senator Marisel is too kind,” Qui-Gon said, but his words were directed politely at Obi-Wan, his voice formal in a way that made the room seem even more cavernous than it was.

It was a voice for strangers.

Before Obi-Wan could even begin to fully orient himself to Qui-Gon’s tone, Aeon was speaking again. “But what of your student, Master Jedi? I see he is not with you today.”

Qui-Gon’s eyes shifted to Aeon as the Senator spoke, and they didn’t flicker in Obi-Wan’s direction even once. “Obi-Wan was Knighted some time ago, as he deserved to be.”

Something clenched within Obi-Wan’s stomach, and for a moment he told himself it was satisfaction that he might have disguised himself so thoroughly.

But it had never done any good to lie to himself.

It was admission and acknowledgement and acceptance all in one. Qui-Gon likely hadn’t been looking for him anyway; to think otherwise was hubris, on a planet so big as Coruscant. There was no reason for Qui-Gon to have recognized him at all through his disguise.

Obi-Wan was no sun for Qui-Gon’s world to revolve around, and he should not-- _did not_ \--expect to be.

“I am sure a Jedi so renowned as Master Jinn has already taken another student,” Obi-Wan said, aiming for lightness and distraction.

“Yes,” Qui-Gon said, and although his mouth did not quite smile, his eyes creased in a way that was more genuine. “A very astute learner whom I am proud to teach. But one student is not so easily replaced with another, and I miss Obi-Wan’s presence keenly.”

“Of course.” Obi-Wan bowed his head slightly, and even though he knew he shouldn’t, he cradled those last words close to his heart. Qui-Gon had said as much privately to him, with his actions if not with his words, inviting Obi-Wan for tea whenever they were both on Coruscant and beginning convoluted debates that kept them talking in circles for hours. But it was different to say such things aloud, in public and amongst strangers, where it almost bordered on praise.

In the long moment before he spoke again, Obi-Wan wasn’t sure what made him do it. Perhaps it was the intimacy of Qui-Gon’s words. Perhaps it was that Aeon looked about to speak again, to return the conversation to inane posturing. Perhaps Obi-Wan had fallen into the trap of anonymity, as if he might do anything this night without repercussion.

Perhaps it was just idle curiosity.

Whatever it was, Obi-Wan felt almost reckless with it.

“Do Jedi dance?” Obi-Wan asked abruptly, and as the words left his lips he suddenly knew.

It was a last, desperate test, because Qui-Gon would never, _ever_ say _yes_ to Obi-Wan.

Qui-Gon looked at him for a long moment, and interest flared briefly in his eyes before it was shuttered. Obi-Wan held his breath, wanting Qui-Gon to say _yes_ and wanting, so badly, for Qui-Gon to say _no_.

“Sometimes,” Qui-Gon finally said, and he held out his hand with the palm turned up. “If the right person should ask, in the right circumstances.”

Obi-Wan had taken Qui-Gon’s hand countless times in the past. He had taken it out of practicality, wrapping his fingers around Qui-Gon’s to lever himself off the ground. He had taken it out of fear, two hands clasping one in the Halls of Healing after Naboo. He had taken it out of friendship, gripping firmly in reunion after months of separation.

He took it now with an odd mix of confusion, desire, and dread as he let Qui-Gon pull him away from Aeon and the others, out onto the crowded midst of the dance floor.

Qui-Gon’s hand was warm as it engulfed Obi-Wan’s, and his other hand, settling into the small of Obi-Wan’s back, felt even warmer. To distract himself, Obi-Wan cleared his throat and grasped for whatever words might come first.

“You’re not even wearing a mask.” It wasn’t much, but Obi-Wan didn’t think he could be blamed with Qui-Gon’s scent all around him.

“Masks are not mandatory, for Jedi,” Qui-Gon said easily as he guided Obi-Wan into the first turn, his grip strong and sure. Obi-Wan had been aware his Master could dance, had even seen him do so on the occasional mission, but it was something else entirely to feel the curve of Qui-Gon’s shoulder beneath one hand, the curl of his fingers around the other.

Qui-Gon's body was something Obi-Wan knew so well and yet didn't know at all, and it was a discrepancy that threatened to overwhelm him.

“Are you on duty, then?”

Obi-Wan needed to keep talking, needed the words to somehow ground himself. But the hum of Qui-Gon’s voice had the opposite effect, and when those lips quirked a little at the corners, Obi-Wan felt adrift.

“One might say that a Jedi is always on duty.” 

That was a no, then, which revealed little to nothing about Qui-Gon’s reasons for being here. Obi-Wan found he almost didn’t care anymore.

“I prefer your face to a mask anyway,” Obi-Wan said, for a million reasons and no reason at all. Because it was true. Because he didn’t know what else to say. Because they were words he could never speak with his own mouth and Qui-Gon might as well know them.

Because some part of him, deep down, wanted to know how Qui-Gon might speak to someone he would dance with.

Qui-Gon’s head tilted a little as if he were trying to puzzle Obi-Wan out, and his gaze lingered on what flesh he could see. “And I might wish I could see yours.” He said it as a matter of fact, without a hint of flirtation, and that somehow made it worse. It was simply something he wanted––to see the face of a man Obi-Wan was pretending to be, when he had once seen Obi-Wan’s face every day.

“It isn’t much to look at.”

Qui-Gon frowned down at him as if he wanted to object, and the way his eyes narrowed in automatic defense made Obi-Wan wonder for one brief, insane moment if he could possibly make Qui-Gon want him enough that when the mask came off...

But Qui-Gon’s thumb was rubbing light circles against the palm of his hand, and Obi-Wan––

Obi-Wan couldn’t do this.

If he could wish for anything in that moment, it would be for a time when he’d never known the warmth of Qui-Gon’s hand upon a stranger’s skin. Perhaps it was what he deserved for not dropping the charade the moment it seemed Qui-Gon had fallen for it.

His hand felt alien and unfamiliar as he tugged it from Qui-Gon’s grip and stumbled back a step, colliding with a body too close behind him. There was a look on Qui-Gon’s face when Obi-Wan met his eyes, but he couldn’t even begin to fathom what it meant.

What he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, was that he couldn’t be here anymore. He curled his fingers in against his palm, nails biting into flesh to discharge the ghost of Qui-Gon’s touch.

Qui-Gon’s eyes narrowed, and he looked like he wanted to move forward, to follow the trajectory of Obi-Wan’s body, so Obi-Wan did the only thing he could think of. He backed up another step, not caring who might be in his way, and turned on his heel. As the Coruscanti elite danced their intricate dances, he made for the door and tried to forget.

 _“Do Jedi dance?”_ He had inquired.

And Qui-Gon had answered, pulling Obi-Wan to pieces unawares, _“Sometimes. If the right person should ask.”_

\---

Once, at a state banquet on Chandrila, Obi-Wan had asked Qui-Gon to dance.

Obi-Wan had been twenty-one and full of adrenaline in the aftermath of a difficult mission.

Qui-Gon had been as beautiful and serene as he always was, sitting next to Obi-Wan at their table.

“We’re practically the only ones not dancing,” Obi-Wan had said, laughing as he leaned in. Their shoulders had brushed, and the jolt of it made him brave. “Shall we?”

Qui-Gon had smiled with a mixture of apology and warmth. “I think it would be best if I did not, my young padawan.” His eyes had searched Obi-Wan’s face, and then panned to survey the room. “But you should join the revelers.”

Obi-Wan had swallowed back the sting, hiding the sincerity of his invitation behind a veneer of amusement. “Ah, you would inflict me upon others, Master.”

And then he had drained the glass of wine at his elbow and stood.

He’d danced for hours, and determinedly, with a strength he hadn’t known he possessed, he hadn’t looked at Qui-Gon once.

\---

Obi-Wan felt almost like a stranger in his own room, somehow too big and too small for his skin. The lights seemed excessively bright, even after the flash and glitter of the masquerade, so he let the door close behind him and dimmed them to almost nothing with the wave of a hand. Without consciously planning to, he made his way to the small chest of drawers tucked in one corner.

Almost distantly, a drawer opened, and the mask went in.

The drawer closed.

Qui-Gon was allowed to want other people.

No matter how it might sting, he was allowed to not want Obi-Wan.

\---

The knock was unexpected, not least because it was passing midnight. Obi-Wan could sense who it was even through the barrier of the door.

For one long, interminable moment he thought about not answering, about pretending to be asleep, about giving himself time, and then he slowly crossed the room.

Qui-Gon never called so late; if he was here, now, it was important.

Obi-Wan’s pain was no match for that.

The door slid open, and when Obi-Wan motioned him inside, not quite able to meet his eyes, Qui-Gon hesitated for just an instant before entering. His hair looked just a little out of place––from the wind, perhaps, or his own fingers.

His face was impassive within the shadows of Obi-Wan’s room.

They stood awkwardly for a moment, there near the door. Obi-Wan wondered if he should say something––ask what was wrong, offer refreshments––but Qui-Gon spoke before he could come to a decision.

His tone was careful, as if he wasn’t entirely sure what to say but needed to say it anyway.

“I am sorry, Obi-Wan. I have been...less than circumspect. When you took my hand at the masquerade, I assumed….” His lips twisted, self-deprecating. “It was never my intent to cause you discomfort. I would never wish to place such a burden on you, that you must reject the advances of someone who should never have offered them in the first place.”

Qui-Gon’s voice filtered through his consciousness, but Obi-Wan’s mind was still somewhere back on the words _hand_ and _masquerade_.

“You...what?”

There were no other words he could think to utter, but the depth of his confusion must have shown on his face, or perhaps echoed through the Force. Qui-Gon looked truly surprised for the first time that night, a look of revelation tinged with something tentative.

“Did you think I did not know you?” When Obi-Wan did not answer, Qui-Gon continued, his voice weary in a way that spoke of defeat. “Anyone else, you would have fooled. You always did excel at stealth. But do you truly imagine that there is a world in which I would not know the precise shape of your hand? The exact height of your body?” Qui-Gon’s eyes closed briefly, and when they reopened, it was with a haunted look. “The scent of you? Obi-Wan, the thought of you has tormented me for years. I would know you anywhere.”

It was too much to process, all at once, so Obi-Wan settled on the practicalities. “You...you never said anything.”

“Obi-Wan…” Qui-Gon didn’t seem to quite know what to do with his hands. “It has always been my greatest fear that you might feel an obligation to me. Even now I have said too much, and I cannot blame the lateness of the hour or the confusion of a masquerade.” He shook his head, tucked his hands away into his robes. “There is only myself to blame. I hope, one day, that you might accept my apology, but I can understand if you do not. It will always be on offer.”

Qui-Gon turned, and his hand was raised to open the door before Obi-Wan could speak again. He had to try twice before he could make the words come, and then he strung them together frantically as the seconds trickled through his fingers like grains of sand, like gales of wind, impossible to catch.

“ _No_ ,” he said. “There is...Qui-Gon. It is not _obligation_ that I could not even stand to be in a room where you had danced with someone else.”

Qui-Gon stopped, body tense, but then he _turned_ and the look in the eyes…

For years, Obi-Wan had wondered what it might take for Qui-Gon to look at him––not out of duty or friendship, but out of want. The answer, it turned out, had been simple enough in its own right.

Qui-Gon had been doing it all along.

\---

Later, after other desires had been sated and they lay in a tangle of sheets and limbs, Obi-Wan finally indulged his curiosity.

“What ever brought you to the palace in the first place?” He pressed his cheek more firmly against Qui-Gon’s chest, and this, _this_ was what it felt like for Qui-Gon to hold him in contentment.

Qui-Gon made a sound that was almost a chuckle, drawing light circles against the bare skin of Obi-Wan’s back. “Anakin was...exceedingly concerned about your bet. He insisted I check in on you. He very much wants you to win.”

“So you thought I needed help too,” Obi-Wan grumbled, even if it was a little difficult to muster any semblance of displeasure.

“No,” Qui-Gon said, pulling Obi-Wan a little closer. “I simply would have taken any excuse to spend an evening with you.”

“I suppose I’ll have to find a way to thank him, then,” Obi-Wan said, but he lost the train of his thoughts when Qui-Gon shifted to roll him to his back against the mattress.

“Later,” Qui-Gon murmured, his lips determinedly finding the sensitive skin beneath Obi-Wan’s jaw, and Obi-Wan could find no argument to that.

\---

(The next morning, when Obi-Wan learned he had soundly won his bet, he knew just how to thank Bant for making him attend the masquerade in the first place.

He’d surely be visiting Corellia again soon, and they did make lovely teapots.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I'm [treescape](https://treescape.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and always taking prompts.


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